


Unprompted Drabbles

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Belly Kink, Cannibalism Play, Character study drabble, Chiss With Knots, Depression, Dom/sub, Enemies to Friends, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Femslash, Gen, Gunplay, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Ageplay, Implied Sexual Content, Insomnia, Lah'mu Fluff, M/M, Mellification, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, NSFW, Older Man/Younger Man, Pregnancy, Primal Dom Tarkin, Tua Lives AU, Twi'lek Appreciation, star wars femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8345311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: Ficlets and drabbles of varying lengths to keep my writer's block at bay.Current NSFW chapters are 2, 4, 6, 10, and 15.  Chapter 11 contains implied NSFW.





	1. Oola, Spirit

Oola sits apart from the other students, glaring at them from her huddle in the corner of the hall.

 

On Ryloth, she’d learned many forms of dance-heartbreaking, joyful, energy in pure form-but here on Tatooine, they want only one from a Twi’lek. Master Treevner’s had her practicing a bastardization of a girl’s initiation dance for the past standard week, thrusts and wiggles overtaking the beautiful flow of kicks and spins she’s had slapped out of her. 

 

She practices them every night regardless, and when she’s the richest dancer on Tatooine, she’ll come back and spit in Treevner’s face.


	2. Ben/Krennic (Side Tarkin/Krennic), Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted by Baethoven and takes place in her Credit/No Credit AU. So I technically lied in the title, sorry!

Ben’s a graceless creature, splashing drops of cocoa over the rim of Tarkin’s mug.

“I want honey.”

Krennic frowns at that, but Ben’s pout is now accompanied by a rather charming swipe of his tongue. He smiles, remembering something Tarkin once whispered while he lapped at his cock.

 _“Legends tell of holy men who would submit to mellification, eating only honey until they’d dissolve into a medicinal syrup so sweet on one’s tongue, it was said to make believers out of even the most atheistic men.”_

Krennic hands Ben the honey. 

“Come upstairs, boy. I have a story for you.”


	3. Jessika/Rey, Esteem

Jessika sighs into the silence of the X-wing.

 

“I understand if, you know, this,” Jessika raises their joined fingers, “has an end date. It’s okay, Ms. Jedi.”

 

Rey raises her head from where she’s been resting it on Jessika’s chest, rubs at her eyes. “What?”

 

“Jedi don’t hang around nothing pilots.”

 

Rey grins, earnest. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a Jedi. And that I’m nothing too.”

 

“You’re not nothing!” Jessika hisses without meaning to, stinging tears sharping her words. “How could you say that about yourself?”

 

“How could _you_ ?” Rey murmurs sadly, exiting the cockpit.


	4. Thrawn/Krennic, Velvet

Thrawn’s lips trail a lazy pattern against Krennic’s shoulder, soft, private sounds escaping between each kiss.

 

 _The essence of a bare canvas and the grace of a completed work embodied in skin._ His knot won’t let up for another quarter hour or so and the human in his bed seems to have fallen asleep, glutted on praise and sex.

 

Krennic is not his to collect and keep on private display, Thrawn knows, but he allows the purr of a Chiss content with their mate to flow from him like velvet and brush against the hum of the ship beyond his quarters.


	5. Leia/Jyn, Recitative

Jyn doesn’t remember how to comfort another person, doesn’t have words sweet enough for a woman whose very life has lit up into nothing before her helpless scream.  She waits until Leia has snarled and sobbed and collapsed into silence before she speaks.

 

“Leia, I…”

 

But Jyn’s mind trails off as she nears her, sees the hollowness in Leia’s lowered eyes.  Jyn sits down, fear rushing through her.

 

“Talk, Erso.” Leia demands roughly, clawing her dress off, crawling into Jyn’s lap. “Tell me about something that isn’t war or murder or the fucking Force.”

 

Jyn cannot smile, but the relief is sweet in her mouth. Leia’s spirit is alive, and so are they.

 

“The flight suit you ordered me came in,” she murmurs, gathering Leia into her arms. “It fits, too, even if it is that orange I hate. Who chose that damned color, anyways?”

 

Jyn kisses the flutter of Leia’s pulse once, twice. It flickers against her lips, bright as the new suit in her locker.

 

“Me,” Leia breathes.

 

Jyn continues.


	6. Tarkin/Krennic, Failure

Tarkin pats his cheek, taps a finger softly on lips parted around his cock. “Obscene, parading around my bridge, shouting commands at my men. The whole of the Empire knows what you are, boy.

 

“A delinquent who left the Academy to suck cock, Sir,” Krennic hisses, taking Tarkin even deeper when he’s pushed down once again.

 

“A failure, that’s what you are.”

 

Krennic lets Tarkin’s cock slide free, hard and slick and difficult to resist. His voice, when it rises from his throat, is unsure, vulnerable.

 

“Yes, fled the Academy to become your Weapons Director. A failure, aren’t I?”

 

Tarkin’s mouth upturns into an elegant snarl. “The Chiss still outranks you, doesn’t he, boy? Return to the task at hand.”


	7. Thrawn/Galen Erso, Flirtation

Thrawn had been suspicious as to the official diagnosis Tarkin had provided to explain this exchange from the beginning. Forfeiting the crew of the _Ghost_ for a non-violent prisoner is likely an insult—one Thrawn is not eager to suffer for the greater sake of the Empire.

 

The man before him is of a healthy height for a human, beautifully strapping and noble of build. His eyes are pure warmth, soft as a domesticated animal’s.  Thrawn rests a hand against the curve of his throat, the pulse of blood invigorating, the skin above it glowing with years of fresh food and drink prior to this entanglement. Against the recycled air of the ship, the scent of his controlled fear is delicious to Thrawn’s senses.

 

Thrawn cannot help the thrill that undulates beneath the flow of his words as he examines Tarkin’s gift.

 

“Welcome aboard the _Chimaera_ , my dear Dr. Erso.”


	8. Jerjerrod, Ether

The bottle of sleeping pills sits beside the two remaining gulps of brandy in Jerjerrod’s glass, glinting against his wrist chrono as he undoes the cap and turns back to his datapad.

 

He could spend the rest of the night cycle reviewing shortcomings that he is already aware of, remembering the brandies raised to his promotion, biting back tears of frustration and simple, childish fear. But, Jerjerrod decides with a blank exhaustion as the pill settles in him, such exercises in futility are just that. He is ether added to the slow burnout of the Empire begun with Scarif, his current position borne of a visionary’s overconfidence with none of his own merit beyond a penchant for architecture to support him.

 

Tarkin haunts him, a specter cold against the glass in his hand, one that resonates in perfect harmony with the hum of the station’s energy ports. Jerjerrod wonders if he’d foreseen all of this like one of the long-dead Jedi, had smiled as his station and its plans had shattered into stardust around him, knowing that any who sought to emulate him would fail.

 

Jerjerrod’s muscles have relaxed now, warm as bathwater. After Hoth, they may very well crush the Rebellion, but how long will the Empire truly hold out? How long will it be until another rebel cell appears once another planet is laid to waste in the name of order?

 

A thought darts by him, feverish, rattling in the moments after he finishes his brandy and sets down his datapad. _This station will survive me_.

 

Jerjerrod feels a certain satisfaction in knowing such as he makes his way to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized a few months ago that I'd tagged Jerjerrod in "Quite Incidental" despite him not making a physical appearance. Here's a Jerjerrod-centric ficlet to make up for the accidental tease.


	9. Shmi Skywalker, Namesake

  
She’s been Shmi as long as she can remember, before Gardulla’s compound, perhaps even before she was still a little girl too young to connect a second name to the one Mama and Papa called her.

 

She is still Shmi, even after these years of loss and agony, the lash of Gardulla’s tongue upon it growing rougher with each passing day. Her skirts are rough in her hands as she clutches them against fear, against the punishments she’s still given despite her supposed fall into favor after conceiving another slave for the compound.

 

But Shmi believes in kindness, believes that this boy inside her was conceived of kindness instead of love. He’s been planted in her without the devotion of her parents’ union, but also without the rape and ravage she’s seen in the alleys from the cracks beyond Gardulla’s compound. They will be one together even after he’s left her body, and she will tell him as much every opportunity that she has. It is selfish to want someone so, but it is a seed in her heart nonetheless.

 

Shmi watches the stars every night from the open half-wall of the slave’s chamber. She’s never been able to sleep without them, has tossed and fretted the nights she’s been forced away from them in order to wake at Gardulla’s side. Shmi knows of the ships that transverse them, spacers and cargo who drift in the emptiness between planets in a life that doesn’t seem like freedom. The thought of slipping into such dependency on machines frightens her, but it doesn’t stop her from craving the sight of the stars with an ache like exhaustion.

 

“You stare at the sky like you could walk out of here on it the harder you look,” Akya groans to her from her pallet, her lekku nearly hitting Shmi’s shoulder as she shifts away from her.

 

 _Skywalker_ , Shmi thinks with a sudden, sure thrill, smiling down at her belly. She and her son will be Skywalkers.


	10. Tarkin/Krennic, Deserved

  
Tarkin holds the loaded blaster against Krennic’s hip, slick with lubricant, glossy and dangerous.

 

“Such an outdated, showy thing,” he comments lightly, his face impassive as he pins Krennic’s wrist back, forcing his fingers out from within himself.

 

Krennic grins, his mouth lewd and swollen. “I happen to like vintage models. Couldn't you tell?”

 

The bruise Tarkin beats into Krennic’s side with the blaster is borne more of cruelty than desire. “Quiet, boy.”

 

Krennic snarls, his voice cracking with pain as Tarkin slides the barrel of the blaster into him in one steady, efficient movement.

 

“I should fire this and be done with you; however, the accident report would be too obscene to properly file.”

 

“You like me too much to kill me.”

 

“A fitting end, though,” Tarkin continues, as though Krennic had not spoken. “Dead for the sake of your own pleasure, by your own weapon, nonetheless.”

 

Krennic arches his back excessively, trying to take the blaster deeper. “Better than how most of us die around here.”

 

Tarkin chuckles, roughly thrusting the blaster until Krennic finishes with a sob.

 

 


	11. Tua/Pryce, Confirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little preview flashfic featuring one of my six couples for #averyimperialvalentines.

Pryce waits by the fortified speeder for Kallus and his troopers to arrive, clasping her hands into concealed fists at their apparent lack of urgency. _Tua is capable_ , Pryce reminds herself, irritated by her own fretting. Despite her age and wide-eyed obedience, Tua has proven herself to be quite competent in her role as minister, proud and proper behind Pryce’s iron silhouette. Her tendency to prattle on leaves something to be desired, but Pryce cannot imagine her without the habit, has even grown to find her little rehearsed speeches charming. Especially, Pryce thinks with satisfaction, when they are juxtaposed minutes later with blatant solicitations for a word of her praise.

 

When Kallus finally appears, dispassionate as always, Pryce wonders how Tua ever survived the rigors of an Imperial academy. The images of that tender throat gulping down hidden liquor or those soft little hands engaged in combat are nearly laughable. Clearly, there is far more to this woman than her records and cheerful servility can communicate, a sharp depth beneath the surface of her composure.

 

Later, as she looms over Tua’s shaking figure, the smell of cooling sex heavy in the air and the stolen data pad resting on her pillow, Pryce is pleased to confirm her suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pryce mentions Tua being quite young, but with the timeline I set up in the two other ficlets, she's about 30 here. Pryce is just being crotchety.


	12. Hux, Resemblance

Hux’s hair has never been his own. He is grateful for it, for the inescapable evidence of his low birth and high status. It is the rest of his features that he loses himself too frequently in —the cheeks ruddy and swollen with exhaustion, pale eyes narrowed against the glare of the fresher mirror. 

 

He will sacrifice until Brendol Hux remains only in the glint of the Emperor’s hair, gain victory when the temporary pleasures of wine and bodies are eclipsed by the legacy of the galaxy itself.

 

Hux tightens his jaw, raising his head until the resemblance is overcome.


	13. Galen/Lyra (past Galen/Krennic), Unconditional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write some sweet Galen/Lyra to make up for filling the tag with fics that don’t actually focus on how much they love one another. I wish we'd gotten to see more of their one-on-one interactions in Rogue One itself.

Galen is, as Lyra had shouted once in frustration, more prone to rumination than a nerf. His mind rarely quiets, thrumming with modifications for their growing homestead, concepts for expansion and husbandry that will disturb the land around them as little as possible. He finds himself enjoying the ease with which the planning comes, a truce forming within him while the waves sweep timelessly along the shore nearby, as steady as Lyra’s sleeping figure in the bunker beneath his feet.

 

However, Galen’s mind is often as loud with hate as it is with creation, a cycle of self-criticism that Lyra worries will grow to affect Jyn’s views of her own worth despite every action they take to prevent it. He is seeped in it tonight, reminded of his greed for an impossible trust. It is Orson’s revenge, he thinks, that he will never know peace among his wife and child, that the terror of life on Coruscant granted him a more restful night than any he has known here.

 

He had loved Orson just as fiercely once, though perhaps never as deeply. Galen hadn't permitted himself the tears he allows to meld into Lyra’s on uncertain mornings, knows that he would have been kissed with passion lacking sincerity instead of held in knowing arms. No, Orson wasn’t made for him to love in the way he begged him to be able to, could never unite with Galen in confessions and losses and empathy to form the enduring bond that he and Lyra have and that Galen would rather die for than break.

 

Unfortunately for Lyra, Galen knows that one of his unsavory habits has already been passed down to Jyn. She, unlike her mother, wakes at the slightest noise beyond her door, worming her way against his knees until he captures her snug in his arms. She has been asleep now for the better part of an hour, her breathing even despite how often Galen accidentally jostles her. There is no comfort in the thought of his daughter becoming fearful of sleep without him, though he knows it may very well serve her should his safeguards fail. His heart, he thinks with a vibrancy that overwhelms the fury that has kept him awake, as precious and promising as the crystal around her mother’s neck had once been.

 

Galen recalls nights when he would have given anything to raise a child with Orson, had imagined adoption holos and cooing infants held between them too many times to count while Orson slept easily beside him. He had always been careful to erase the names of hypothetical children from his mind whenever Orson stirred, hollow in what Orson would have diagnosed as weakness. There is vulnerability in the way that he has shared himself so fully, Galen knows, though he feels nothing but the strength of devotion as he pulls away from Jyn to see the slope of Lyra’s brow.

 

“I love you, Stardust,” he murmurs against Jyn’s braids, smiling when she wriggles backwards into his warmth.

 

Perhaps, absorbed in the selfishness he uses to drive himself towards glory, Orson is the most vulnerable of them all.


	14. Lyra and Jyn (Lyra/Galen), Welcoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more happy Lyra/Galen, this time with a Lyra POV.

  
“Mama, where’s Sniksnak? Can you help me find him?” Jyn asks, her eyes wide and urgent. She’s been rushing in and out of the bunker all afternoon, dividing her time between gathering her toys into her wagon and checking on Longee where she lies upon a bed of torn grass against the garden wall, her carved legs jutting upwards into the air. Lyra isn’t sure exactly what species Longee _is_ , not to mention how she’s apparently fallen pregnant when she is the only one of her kind on Lah’mu, her daughter's answer still amusing her hours later.

 

“The Force,” Jyn had replied when she’d asked over breakfast, her concentration on finishing her glass of milk nearly identical to her father’s while engaged in a particularly interesting diagram. “The Force did it.”

 

Lyra had nodded solemnly then, as she does now when she agrees to join Jyn in rooting underneath rugs and in cupboards for the missing shaak toy. Sniksnak is an old friend of hers, found snuggled between them after Jyn and Lyra had fallen asleep together before the fire during their first hurricane.

 

“I didn’t quite catch his name, Stardust,” Galen had told her, sleepless eyes darting over Lyra’s shoulder. “But from what I understand, he traveled all the way from Naboo in the midst of the storm once he heard about your seagrass cakes.”

 

Lyra has never had the patience that Galen does for detail in her handicrafts, preferring to work instead upon sewing blankets and repurposing Jyn’s outgrown clothes into miniature version of her father’s —tasks that can be set aside quickly if Jyn needs her attention. Jyn is an inquisitive, active child, and Lyra is always pleased by her spirit, by her curious hands and kind play. If she finds herself wishing that Jyn might favor her with more than a quick hug or the infrequent request to hold her kyber crystal the way she does with her father, then she dismisses the notion immediately.

 

“Got him! C’mon!” Jyn shouts from underneath her bed, tossing Sniksnak into her wagon and racing outside. Lyra follows, looking down upon the spread of their garden, spotting Galen crouching behind an outcrop close by.

 

“Mama, look! We missed it! The calf’s already here!” Jyn tugs on her sleeve, pulling Lyra towards the crevice that Longee rests in, now shared with a miniature of herself.

 

“Galen,” she tuts under her breath, stifling her laugh into her sleeve. She feels a familiar pair of arms curl around her waist, Galen’s gentle brush of lips against her temple just as thrilling as it always manages to be.

 

“Papa, look! Longee had her calf! It’s a girl, just like I thought!”

 

“So she did,” Galen chuckles as Jyn attaches herself to his knee, tucking the two toys safely away into his belt.

 

“You’d make a terrible biologist,” Lyra murmurs into his jaw, kissing softly at the beard she’s come to regard as rather dashing on him. “I still have no idea what the damn thing _is_. And now you’ve gone and made another one.”

 

“Does she have a name yet, Stardust?” Galen asks Jyn, a blush creeping pleasantly along his cheeks.

 

“Lyra,” Jyn declares proudly, her arms welcoming her mother into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The names and descriptions for Jyn’s toys come from the Rogue One Ultimate Sticker Encyclopedia!   
> -I’ve always pictured Galen as the anxious-hands sort, so I’ve decided that he whittles and does a little embroidery for Jyn’s toys when he can.


	15. Tarkin/Galen, Order

The contrast between them has been the catalyst for every one of these indiscretions. Erso is soft where Tarkin is lean, the officer’s portions Krennic had so insisted upon metabolized into fat that presses against the sinew and strength that Tarkin wields. Tarkin will not deny himself what Krennic’s nagging has wrought when Erso himself presents it in the pampered swell of his belly and hips, in the slight bounce of his pectorals when Tarkin fucks into him and maintains the natural order that he values above all else.

 

Tonight, Tarkin has bitten along each curve of flesh in turn, occasionally stopping to rut his hardening cock against Erso’s thigh. He is deaf to Erso’s own pleasure, the will of instinct unhindered as he devours something a lesser man would attempt to savor. There is a dominance in Tarkin’s movements that is beyond the scope of this project, that transcends intelligence, labor, design. It is power in its most base form, held in Tarkin’s palms along with the softness of Erso’s flesh.

 

Erso lets out another whimper beneath him, arching upwards in search of Tarkin’s mouth. Tarkin allows their lips to meet briefly, rewarding his submissively-bared throat with bruises. It is in these moments that Erso is at his best, freed from the sullen resignation that Tarkin has come to enjoy ripping into with teeth and tongue and cock.

 

“You need this,” Tarkin snarls, squeezing the satisfying give of his hips. “You crave me.”

 

Erso’s cries become softer the further down Tarkin drags his mouth, setting upon his chest. Tarkin imagines the spread of the plateau as he sucks Erso’s nipples between his lips, the lush greenery giving way to the stones that cradle their seeds above the angry white of the rapids beneath.

 

Tarkin smiles when he finally enters Erso, taking as much pleasure from the warmth of his body as he does in the docile flicker of his eyelids when he presses the heel of his hand against his throat.


	16. Tua and Sabine, Education (Gen, mentioned Pryce/Tua and Ketsu/Sabine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson in blaster maintenance turns into a moment of understanding between two former Imperial students.

“How exactly did you do that again? Forgive me, this is all quite new.”

 

Sabine’s hand slams down onto the table as if of its own accord. “This is your blaster,” she says slowly, glaring at Tua’s quivering mouth, “and you don’t even know how to _set it to stun_?” Really, Sabine knows that she shouldn’t be surprised any more by how stupid Academy graduates can be, but she’s still nearly speechless.

 

“Karabast, I’m done here,” Zeb groans, sliding out of the booth across from them. “I’d rather go and watch Kanan and the kid levitate cans into the garbage disposal.”

 

Tua recoils from Sabine, turning to face Zeb with that infuriating, pleading look that would get her slapped by any woman on Mandalore. “No, do stay! Perhaps you could teach me instead?”

 

Zeb snorts. “I’ve done enough for you, hauling you up the side of the ship. Still have claw marks on my back from that. Thought Sabine said long nails weren’t exactly practical for what—“

 

Tua gasps, her hand fluttering against her cheek. “Now, Captain, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to!”

 

Sabine snaps upright. “Hera’s the captain of this ship.“

 

“I was simply attempting to honor his cultural—“

 

“Watch it, lady,” Zeb growls, his ears flicking back, arms crossed.

 

Of course, sensing a fight, Chopper bursts in, wrenches spinning. Tua lurches backwards to cover Sabine, snatching the blaster from her hands and aiming it, albeit shakily, at Chopper’s light sensor.

 

“Karabast!” Zeb shouts, lunging to knock it out of her hand and onto the floor, the bolt scorching the wall behind a furious Chopper. “You’re just like the rest of them! Chop’s a member of this crew and I’ll throw you out the airlock if you treat him like that again!”

 

Tua leans further back into Sabine, attempting to bury her face against her neck. “It—it was set to stun! I swear!”

 

“Chopper—out. Zeb, go find Hera and ask her where we’re even going at this point. We’ve been in hyperspace too long for it to be Garel again.”

 

Tua smiles thinly, fully extracting herself from Sabine once Zeb’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “I suppose I should go and see if my knowledge of the ports is needed if we are landing there.  You know, I'm quite familiar with them.”

 

Sabine suppresses a groan while she slides across the table to retrieve the blaster, her esteem waning. “No—stay.”

 

Obediently, Tua straightens herself once more, hands clasping against her crossed legs.

 

“So, what _can_ you do with this thing?” Sabine asks, resisting the urge to toss it back to her.

 

“Well,” Tua says proudly, “I can aim and shoot, as you know. Cleaning it was always left to the new recruits stationed with Aresko and Grint.”

 

Sabine doesn’t bother to hide her opinion this time. “So any one of them could have sabotaged it, just because you thought you were too good to clean your own blaster?”

 

Tua’s jaw twitches. ”I hardly wanted to waste my time at the Academy taking weapons management classes when there were more relevant courses that I knew would aid me in my goal of a political position.”

 

“And yet you still couldn’t understand Aqualish. Makes sense.”

 

Tua, at the very least, finally has the sense to look embarrassed. “I suppose you’re right. It was just, well, everything in the Empire was always taken care of. I never bothered to consider what that entailed.”

 

Sabine shoots her a put-upon look, gently nudging her shoulder until her eyes are no longer downcast. “You’re way too naive.”

 

Instead of petty outrage, Sabine is greeted with a haunted, bitter look. “Arihnda always found it amusing. Well, in the right situations. Likely not in the ones that involved her compensating for my weaponry skills. Or after her departure.”

 

Sabine doesn’t register surprise at her newfound knowledge, nor does she take the cue to return to blaster maintenance. There’s an urgency building in her, a need to express herself outside of her art that she never thought she’d feel again.

 

“She left you,” Sabine knows her expression now mirrors Tua’s, “to fend for yourself, and you managed for a while, but now…” she trails off, wishing suddenly, fervently, for her paints. How can she describe Ketsu, explain her and all of her undertones and symbolism and vibrancy with just words?

 

“But now it’s different for both of us,” Tua says, smoothing her face once more into that of the eager student. “Please, let’s continue with our lesson.”

 

Sabine sighs, Zeb’s poorly-muffled scratching in the hallway swaying her to agree. “So, you ready to try setting it to stun and back on your own?”

 

Zeb, of course, immediately enters with his hands up, smirking at Tua’s uncomfortable nod.

 

“Back to Garel, big shocker. Fuel’s low, so travel time’s higher. You teach her how to reload that thing yet?”

 

Sabine’s wild grin surprises her as much as it clearly does her crewmates.

  
  
“Nope, but we’re getting there.”

 


	17. Tarkin/Galen, Currency (Mentioned Galen/Krennic)

Tarkin’s jaw tenses. “What is the meaning of this, Dr. Erso?”

 

The center of the apartment is a mess of hideous white pillows and wrappings, smaller boxes strewn among two terrariums, a mannequin wearing a prototype uniform, and cases upon cases of wine and candy. Erso sits upon the floor in the middle of it all, sipping caf from a mess hall mug and fiddling with a mouse droid.

 

“Director Krennic’s handiwork, I presume?” he tries again, his voice sharpened to a point.

 

Erso finally looks up, startled. Oddly, there is something close to amusement on his face when he replies.

 

“The uniform’s capelet must have given it away.”

 

Tarkin frowns. Erso does not set aside the droid, instead continuing to tinker with it while Tarkin stands in the doorway. The shame in his posture and the bites along his jaw tell Tarkin that it is not Erso’s impertinent gluttony that has soiled his new quarters.

 

Still, Tarkin decides to follow through with his reprimand. “You do not require anything more than the other engineers arriving tomorrow do. Eadu is no resort planet, and if you and Krennic have deluded yourselves into thinking that my program’s funding will support this wastefulness in the future, then I am proud to dismiss that fantasy.”

 

Erso’s eyes sweep from box to box. “I didn’t ask him for any of this.”

 

 _“I know,” Tarkin_ nearly says. _“You are simply either too weak-spirited to deny his advances or you lack the persistence Krennic’s submission requires.”_

 

“Please,” Erso adds softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Dispose of it. I don’t _want_ any of it.”

 

Tarkin’s frown deepens with irritation, the absurdity of this hulking, unshaven man being put up like a senator’s mistress furthered by his utter awkwardness. The disdain he feels for Erso, hunched like a wounded animal over the droid, is suddenly far too close to pity for his liking.

 

“Come,” Tarkin says sharply. “I need a full status report before this evening, and a conference room will be far more conducive to that. I will send a squadron to remove this mess.”

 

Erso blinks stupidly, finally setting aside the droid. He rises, his dull eyes steady upon Tarkin’s for a long, purposeful moment.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, lurching forward to press a kiss on the corner of Tarkin’s mouth.

 

Tarkin’s lip curls in disgust, though it is Krennic’s face he sees when he addresses Erso once more. “This is not the currency I exchange with my lovers, Dr. Erso.”

 

Erso’s expression remains neutral, though the glassiness of his eyes tells Tarkin that the key to Krennic’s downfall may be close indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the Talen Discord channel for getting me deeper into this pairing!


End file.
